Luyện nghe bài hát The Gallery

My building's of little holes with heads in,
at the street.
They sometimes forwards,
then at one another,
freaks.
They speak and though I don't feed them--
still keep their double (their quadruple) chins.
Their garbage are emptied each day.
By night waiting with lights off, their out,
their in-- they're PEEPING!
They're at the methylated man who spits in a can,
his hands for silver,
pans for gold.
He old forgotten songs his father taught him,
on the floor.
He in alcoves,
gets caught in down rotting walls.
(He's bored.)
My applaud, throw pennies and wait. . .
peeping the gallery.